Read the book: «Life Without You»

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Book List

Title Page

Copyright

Author Bio

Acknowledgements

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Epilogue

Endpages

About the Publisher

Prologue

I was scribbling down the name of a website when I saw it, like an invitation meant especially for me. Details for a contest that one of my favorite magazines was running, a shot at writing something that millions of other people would read, right there on the pages of one of the best-known glossies in publication. A shot at having five minutes of fame and a few other perks: an all-expense-paid trip to New York City to the magazine’s headquarters; audience with a panel of agents and editors who could be career and life-altering in their abilities to get a writer’s name known; and a cash prize of three thousand dollars.

Granted, it was a long shot; and I’d run across numerous contests similar to this one before, all without feeling that I would have any words that fit the bill. But this one? This one seemed as though it had been designed just for me. Especially since it would cross one more thing off my bucket list—a list that I had written months before as a way to get my life back on track when it had come so dangerously off the rails. A list that had, in a way, become part of my saving grace when so much had been lost.

Take a Long Shot.

Annual Writing Contest:

Inspiring Women and the Ways They’ve Changed Us

Readers! Do you have a story to tell? Email us and tell us about a woman or a group of women who have particularly inspired your life in some way. How has knowing them changed you? How have they changed the people around them?

Submission guidelines swam before my eyes, barely penetrating my brain as a thousand thoughts and emotions tumbled through me.

Inspiring women.

Did I know any of those?

Yes, I thought as I ran a finger over the surface of the pearl-covered pen in my hands, noticing the way the charm bracelet I wore seemed to dance happily as my arm moved. Yes, I certainly do…

More than any other piece I’d written so far, this was the story I was meant to tell; and in telling it, I hoped I would be able to send a message. That there was healing from grief; that there was love after loss; that there was strength and beauty in all of us, even when we felt at our weakest. I, like so many other women, had lived so long under the control of fear and let it overshadow me, let it reduce me to a point where I was nearly lost forever. It had taken the friendship of these women and the stories they had to tell to inspire me to reach for more, to take back the life I had been given and make it count.

Yes, I knew some very inspiring women. And I hoped that, in sharing their stories with others, I was passing on the gift that they had given me, speaking out to a world of readers who might need to hear that they, too, were strong, beautiful, and irreplaceable.

Chapter One

Six months earlier…

What do you write when your whole job is writing for a living, and you finally have time to do some creative writing? My brain seemed to be fried, firing on only three cylinders.

Maybe two.

Actually, if I was honest, it was probably more likely only one. One whole cylinder to call my own.

Impressive, no?

Which is why, three hours after I sat down with my laptop to write, the cursor on the page was still winking at me from a pristinely white document and my Internet browsing history jumped around with manic randomness on sites that varied from discounted deals on Birkenstocks to how to ace a first date.

Not that I was in the market for either of those things right now, but still. Things to file away for future use.

Yup, random.

And a total time suck.

If I’d been feeling a little more ambitious, I might have been trawling the Internet for ideas of articles to pitch some of my editors; but as I said, my brain was fried.

Maybe beyond fried.

And my ability to focus was decidedly absent.

Not that I didn’t love my work. I truly did, but there were moments of doubt when being a freelance writer in her early thirties seemed as nebulous a profession as being a quote-unquote consultant, and I felt like people thought my job was a joke and that I should grow up and do something more stable and responsible for a career.

So there I sat, staring silently at the screen as the cursed cursor blinked and winked at me, happily mocking my lack of both creativity and productivity.

I was a useless occupant of space, breathing air I had not earned, contributing nothing to the world around me.

The phone on the desk next to me started to vibrate and ring, scaring the absolute tar out of me. I hit the answer button and caught a glimpse of my sister’s name flashing across the screen.

“Yuh?” I said, my voice sounding out of practice and croaky. It had been a little too long since I’d actually put it to use by conversing with another human being.

“Nice greeting. You might want to work on the delivery,” came the reply, not missing a beat.

“And you might want to not be so judgy,” I shot back.

“I’m your sister. If I don’t tell you straight up how it is, who else will?”

“Mama would,” I said, not even having to waste a moment on thought.

A raspy bark of laughter came over the line. “Damn skippy,” she said.

I smiled.

I could picture her, my older sister, blonde and blue-eyed with high cheekbones and dewy skin that would make even the most-skilled dermatologist scratch his head in wonderment. I had no idea what her secret was, but it was definitely working for her.

“So what are you doing today?” Charlie asked, breaking into my random thought trajectory.

I frowned at my blank computer screen.

“Working,” I lied.

“Naturally,” she said flatly. “You’re always working, Dellie. You need a break,” Charlie insisted. “A real one.”

I could feel my eyebrows knitting together. A break? I didn’t have time for a break. I didn’t have money for a break. How the heck was I supposed to have a break?

“A break?” I repeated dumbly.

“Yes, a break. As in, a vacation.”

“And just how do you propose this so-called break might happen, Charlie? I have too many things to do and no money to fund any kind of vacation. You know that.” I could hear the frustration edging into my voice.

Yes, I wanted a break. I desperately wanted a break, but there were all those other ugly bits of reality to deal with. There were deadlines to meet, emails to send, bills to pay.

“Mike and I…” she started, but I interrupted.

“How is Mike, by the way?” I asked, hoping she might drop the issue.

“Fine,” she replied, sounding slightly puzzled and caught off guard. “Mike is just fine. But seriously, Dellie, we’re both worried about you. And I know that Mom and Dad are, too. After everything that happened last year—”

I felt tears start to sting my eyes. “Yeah, everything that happened last year,” I said quietly.

“Last year was a hell of a year, Dellie. And you need some time. You never got to take any time, and we worry about you.”

“I know,” I whispered, unsure that she could actually hear me on the other end.

“We worry about you a lot,” she said again, this time with more emphasis.

I worried, too. About more things than I could count.

I worried about them worrying about me.

I worried about work and whether I would have enough to cover the bills.

I even worried when I wasn’t worried.

When was I ever going to get a real break from worrying?

Maybe when you stop breathing, I heard a little voice in my head taunt.

“I know you do,” I repeated, wishing I could just flip a switch and change things. “I don’t mean to make any of you worry.”

“We only worry because we love you. You know that, right?”

I nodded. “Yes,” I said, knowing that the nodding wouldn’t exactly be effective over the phone. “And I love you, too.” I took a deep breath.

Time to talk about something else.

“So what’s new at the Jackson house today?” I asked, hoping she would take the bait this time.

“Not much. I have to go to the hardware store later to look at some paint samples for the dining room, but right now I’m doing laundry,” she said. “Lots and lots of laundry. The amount of laundry that little people generate boggles the mind. I literally run at least one load every day!” She laughed, and I could hear the breathlessness creep in, a sign that she was pushing it a bit too hard. “When it was just Mike and me, laundry happened every few days. But now? Every day.”

“And it’s just going to get worse, you know,” I teased her, thinking of my sister’s three children and a fourth one that was soon to follow. We were running into the final countdown on her due date.

“Don’t remind me,” she moaned in mock resignation. “Burp cloths, bibs, towels, and even more eensie weensie sets of clothes. With all this technology, you’d think we’d have robots to take care of all this stuff like they did on The Jetsons.”

“Be nice, wouldn’t it?” I asked with a smile, knowing that she didn’t really mind. Charlie was being a wife and a mother and raising a family that she adored. She was happy with her life, even if it did require copious amounts of laundry detergent sometimes.

“I did have a reason for my call, other than to discuss my laundry woes with you, you know.”

“I thought as much,” I replied, playing dumb, not sure I wanted to hear where she was going with this.

She sighed, loud and long. “Okay. We really, really think you need to take a vacation, Dellie. A real one, one that lasts more than a weekend. More like a month,” she said.

I got up from my chair, feeling the tense muscles in my legs protest slightly. I’d been sitting way too long, glued to my chair in hopes that some stray thought might jump-start an actual burst of legitimate productivity, afraid that if I got up and away from my computer that I would miss the golden window of opportunity, should one present itself.

Alas, so far, all doors and windows, golden or otherwise, had not been forthcoming. Now seemed as good a time as any to get up from my throne of idleness and move around a little.

I started to pace.

“And I know you say you can’t take time away from work and you can’t afford it, but hear me out,” she pleaded.

“Hearing,” I said dubiously.

I paused in my pacing to peek out my living room window through a slight break in the blinds. As per usual, the neighbor one unit down and to my left was giving the entire apartment complex a visual feast, sporting an ill-fitting white wife beater tank top stretched over his sizable beer gut to barely meet the top of faded madras shorts. Madras.

He’s dressed up today, I thought absurdly.

“Getting away for awhile, even just to be in a new place, would be good for you. It might even get you out of your creative funk. And don’t say you’re not having one—you told me last week when we talked that you felt like the stuff you were working on was…less than inspiring?” she said, obviously searching for a kinder word than I had used in our previous conversation.

I raised an eyebrow.

“So since you’re so convinced you can’t actually put work on hold for a bit, take it with you. That’s one of the nice things about your job, remember? You can take it anywhere you want to go,” she barreled on.

“Aren’t you forgetting about the money thing?” I asked, sure I was going to bring this idea crashing back to reality. “And what about interviews?”

“You do those over the phone most of the time, and you know it,” she retorted. She was determined to make me come around.

“Not always, Charlie. Sometimes I actually have to go to meet these people when I write an article. And besides, maybe I’m too busy with things to just pick up and pack up and go.”

There was a long silence on the other end of the line. I could tell she was trying to muster every ounce of patience she had in her. And, as the mother of three small children, she had patience in spades.

“I know you have a lot of jobs going, Dellie, and I’m really proud of you for that. We’re all really proud of you,” she said gently. “But you need some time away from here, some space. Some fresh air, if you want to put it that way. It would be good for you to get out of your routine for a bit.”

“I happen to like routine,” I said, far from convinced by her argument and wanting desperately to get off the phone.

Charlie sighed. Clearly, this was not going the way she wanted it to.

Tough cookies.

“I know you do. But you’re also a slave to it, Odelle Simms. It controls you, rather than the other way around. You realize that, don’t you, Dellie?”

I glared down at my toes in frustration, feeling misunderstood and wishing I could glare at her in person. We may have lived only forty-five minutes from one another, but it was at times like this that those forty-five minutes seemed like light-years.

“If nothing else, maybe you could find some more people to write for—new magazines that would like to work with you?” she suggested, forced pleasantness creeping into her voice.

She was tiring of this argument as much as I was.

My mouth clamped shut, biting back my protest. I hadn’t actually thought about that. New contacts, new markets to reach. It was starting to sound interesting. Maybe she was onto something with that one. Still, the whole idea of this was overwhelming; there were far too many factors to weigh in, complications that could potentially tangle me up into a bigger mess than I already felt like I was in.

“Don’t put a limit on your dreams, Dellie,” Charlie said, breaking in to my rampant thoughts. “You got enough of that from your husband.”

The words felt like a slap in the face. A bucket of ice water.

My nose stung with looming tears.

“Don’t let him win this one,” she whispered. I could hear the tears in her voice, even with the phone line between us.

How did she do this to me? I wondered as water pooled in my eyes and trickled slowly down my cheeks.

“Charlie, I—” I sniffed, hearing my voice crack.

“Just think about it, please? Promise?”

I nodded into the phone, still staring down at my toes but no longer seeing them.

“Dellie?”

“I promise,” I squeaked back.

I knew, as I hung up, that this was one promise I would not easily break, as unsettling as the idea was for me. It was impetuous and adventurous, something I hadn’t allowed myself to be for a long time—even before I’d taken the walk down the aisle to start my short-lived failure of a marriage. This was one promise, one idea, that would haunt me for days, torturing my wakeful hours and whispering to me in my sleep.

Don’t limit your dreams, Dellie, I heard a voice whisper. Let go and dream them.

Chapter Two

“My sister thinks I need a vacation. A long one. Like, a month-long one,” I said to my friend Bette a week later over lunch.

She looked up from the plateful of fries she was attacking, one eyebrow arched.

“And this surprises you, why?” she asked around a mouthful.

I put down my sandwich to reach for a sweating glass of water, not thirsty but feeling a bit unsettled and trying to figure out as many ways as I could to stall. It was a mystery even to me why I had brought up the subject at this point. I had danced myself right in front of the firing squad, so I guess I deserved her pointed question. Not that it really was all that pointed or unreasonable.

In fact, it was more than logical.

For most people, it might have even been a simple question. But right then, I was so confused about what I wanted and how I felt about the whole thing that the most uncomplicated inquiry could send me off-kilter.

I left the glass where it sat, puddling moisture on the tabletop, and traced a finger down the side, keeping my focus fixed on it. Anything to avoid her green-eyed gaze.

I shrugged.

“Come on, Dellie. Really,” she said, exasperation thick in her voice. “How long have I been telling you the same thing? You work too much, and you don’t do anything with anyone anymore.”

My eyes shot up to her face, a protest ready to spring from my lips. “Yes, I—”

“No, you don’t,” she cut in, poking a fry in my direction and shaking it for emphasis. “You don’t. Every time I ask you to come do something with me, you tell me you have work to do.” She pouted, her lipstick still perfect even though she’d eaten her way through half a plate of fries. “I’m beginning to think you don’t like doing things with me.”

“No, Bette,” I said, shaking my head. “That’s not it at all, and you know it.”

She dunked the French fry in a pool of ketchup before popping it into her mouth.

“Well, then you’re going to have to show me. Otherwise, I will not be convinced,” she said, shaking her head. “In the meantime, back to the vacation thing. Your sister thinks it. I think it. And I know your parents think it.” She tilted her head to the side, her jewel-like eyes boring into me. “So why do you seem so…defensive about whole idea? Most people would just say, ‘Yes, I agree,’ or ‘No, go to hell,’ and move on.” She finished chewing and swallowed, pausing thoughtfully. “But you? You act like we’re telling you we think you need to move to Uganda or something.”

I shot her a look.

She shrugged again. “Okay, maybe not Uganda. But something risky or life-altering. We’re talking about a vacation,” she emphasized. “A break, you know? Something most people enjoy and recharge with.”

“Uh-huh, most people,” I shot back, picking up my fork to poke through the lettuce in my salad, in search of peppers. “And when was the last time my life resembled most people’s?”

“So maybe a vacation could be your reset button, and you could start having a somewhat normal life?” she posed.

I speared my salad, giving up on the peppers and shaking my head.

“A vacation isn’t a magical cure-all, Bette. And there are things that I can’t just leave here.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, many things.”

Bette ran a hand through her very thick, very raven hair to tuck it behind a heavily pierced ear.

“Name one.”

I opened my mouth, ready to start my verbal rundown.

“Besides work, Dellie.”

My mouth slammed shut as I thought.

Bette crossed her arms as she settled further into her chair, a smug look on her face.

I narrowed my eyes at her.

“For one thing, my apartment. I can’t just leave my apartment empty for that amount of time.” I shook my head, knowing that I probably sounded like I was grasping at straws. “Maybe it would be different if it was a house, and I had a neighbor I trusted to look after things. But in my apartment?” More headshaking. “Not really the best idea. Somebody might break in, and then what?”

“What am I, chopped liver?” she asked, looking slightly hurt.

“No,” I replied, puzzled. “But you’ve lost me. You live an hour away from my place, so it doesn’t really put you in the best position to keep an eye on things. And besides that, you’ve got work and Steve and—”

“And Steve could use a shake-up of his own,” she broke in, reaching again for her dwindling pile of French fries, now undoubtedly grown cold.

I watched her, a knot of apprehension growing in my gut. “What do you mean?”

She chose a fry and bit into it forcefully, funneling her aggression to the helpless spud.

“Let’s just say that Steve isn’t exactly keeping his priorities straight, and I think we could use some distance for awhile,” she replied. She swallowed. “Not forever, but…he needs to be reminded of some things.”

“Things being?”

“Things being that he has a wife who loves him and a marriage that he’s supposed to be committed to.” She sighed, looking sad.

I stared at her in dismay. “Is he cheating on you?”

Bette shook her head.

“No. Not yet. Not out-and-out cheating,” she said. “But there’s something going on with some woman he works with.” She blinked at the tears that I could see collecting in her eyes. “He just seems so distant all the time, like when he’s with me, he’s not really with me. And every time I try to talk to him about it, he pretty much just shuts down and changes the subject, says he’s got a lot going on at work and he doesn’t want to get into it. So I think a little time apart might do us some good,” she sniffed.

I plucked a paper napkin from the dispenser on the table and held it out to her. I’d never seen Bette get so emotional before, so this was new territory for me. Normally, she was the tough, show-no-fear type. The ball-crusher. And now she was showing a softer side that I wasn’t quite prepared for.

“So…?”

“I could stay at your place,” she said simply, regaining her composure as she dabbed the corners of her eyes with the napkin. “I’ll pay you a month’s worth of rent, and I promise to keep it spic and span.” She smiled. “No wild parties, I promise.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“Why does that phrase not reassure me?” I asked.

She spread her arms, shoulders raised toward her earlobes as she gave me a look of innocence. “I have no idea,” she replied. “Who on Earth do you think I would invite to a party?”

I narrowed my eyes.

“Aren’t you running for some new position in the League?”

She cocked her head sideways, still managing to appear angelic, somehow. Her eyes widened in a look of guiltless surprise as authentic as the color of her irises. And those babies were courtesy of 1-800-Contacts.

“Oh, that’s right. The vote’s coming up soon.” She shook her head. “You know, with everything else that’s been going on, I guess I forgot all about it.”

“Uh-huh. And your granny’s famous pecan pie is really a Sara Lee.”

“Don’t go dragging Granny into this, or you’ll regret it,” Bette growled. “Uh-uh, no ma’am,” she cautioned. “And especially don’t be insinuating that she buys her pies.” The last three words were whispered, eyes huge with the scandal of it all. “Uh-uh.”

For a minute, I thought she might actually genuflect and cross herself—even though Bette came from a family as un-Catholic as kosher wine.

Not that she was Jewish, either.

In fact, Bette’s family hadn’t stepped foot in a church of any kind since 1977, when the preacher at her parents’ church had railed against the evils of television from the pulpit. The man was positively off his rocker; but ever since then, the Martin family had eschewed Sunday morning service in favor of a soul-strengthening, artery-hardening Southern-style breakfast at the diner on the end of their street. At the time, Mr. Martin worked for the local ABC affiliate, so television kept a roof over his children’s heads and put food on the table. The negativity spewed from the lips of the preacher was unforgivable, and they’d never gotten over it. No matter that the man had long since retired or that there were any number of other churches in the area from which to choose. Mr. and Mrs. Martin had been soured on the church because of one pastor’s misplaced condemnation, and now they judged the institution as a whole by that measure. Sad and ironic, but true.

Even when Bette had come to her own decision as an adult to find and become active in a church, her parents had refused each and every invitation she had given them to join her for a service. But that was hardly the issue at hand.

I smiled at Bette, raising my hands in surrender.

“God forbid I ever do that,” I said, shaking my head. “I love your granny. And I know she’d sooner give up her prized collection of bake-off trophies than ever stoop so low as actually letting a store-bought pie pass through her doorway. Much less a Sara Lee.” I felt the smile slip a bit. “But you and I both know that you’re angling for a spot, and having a tea or mixer or whatever-the-heck y’all Junior League ladies do would help you along.” I shrugged. “You can admit it. I just don’t know that having it at my place would really be the best idea, in the end. It might actually hurt your chances.” I paused, looking for the best way to frame my argument without slamming my own living conditions or making her feel like I was judging her for whatever was happening between her and Steve.

“I’ve never had any issues with the neighbors on either side of me; but there’s a guy in the next building who likes to give everyone in the complex an eyeful, and the couple in the unit below mine has loud disagreements all the time. Much slamming of doors and hurling of Spanish expletives happening,” I said, deciding to lay it all out on the table and hoping it would be an effective deterrent.

“You speak about as much Spanish as an English bulldog, Dellie,” Bette replied, looking dubious. “How would you know what they’re saying, expletive or otherwise?”

I shrugged. “Educated guess.”

“Uh-huh. You’re just trying to talk me out of what you think I’m going to be doing while you’re gone. Which, for your information, my dear, is completely mistaken. I’m trying to be a good friend here, and you’re pooh-poohing it.” She clucked sadly.